thirty summer

carving words out of willows

Silver Spoon Sonatas #2

Sipping coffee
hot black blood in a cup
something from Mexico
can’t be bothered to read the name
in a language that I don’t know anyway.
Organic thing though
for the Hipsters that don’t come
since its the summer and
all of the longboards are gone
and the box guitars are all tuned down
for the long haul back to Seattle or South Beach
or Oklahoma or Utah or where ever.
I feel poor and humble
on this hot day in May
and I am surrounded by filthy blotched brown tiles
for floors and the tables and chairs remain
like some painted, neckbeard graveyard
from an internet-intertwined sonnet.
sing-songy little thing with perfect little
rhyming devices that make a quilt
on paper, stitched together and the image
always seems just slightly off, slightly shifted in the red.
Where are all those little Ginsbergs
dying in bed sheet burdens and tossing it up
from memories of Everclear in Kool-Aid cups?
Not here — there are no bad noises here
as all the children slumber the summer days asunder
and the thunder only sounds like drum circles
and the hippies did it all before
and the punk-rockers did it all before
and the beats built it from camp fires, cars, cigarettes  and mescal
and I only dream of days where I can be it, machine myself into it
like a circuit board smile and digital drug.
These rooms are empty
and these chairs and tables are empty
save for a bored dark-haired woman
twisting her fingers around yarn in the corner.


Machines and mountains

Mountains built out of concrete slabs
and crumbling rock
machine switched on
moving through the spiderweb memories
of streets that no longer have definition
and the machines
scorch the sky with sounds of nuclear war
and falling giants.
But I watch on as if in an illusion
and walk through the doors
as a campus becomes a canvas
and Armageddon comes swiftly
to parking spaces and tree lines.
Machines and mountains.


Words smash
computer screen 50 inches wide
with talking heads
and spiders crawl the walls
and spew forth
politics and we all dance and
like and share
Ideas canned and put on shelves,
pickled for generations and
cabbage ideas.
green bean ideas.
stewed tomato ideas.
social media garden
carving dirt with fingernails
instead of plows.
crusty, bruised agendas and
we all keep tallies on
how many friends we have  and
90% of you won’t share this and
one more e-card won’t make your eyes
bleed. Why do we keep coming back
to this blue-barred idiot box disease?

Dance with the demons

I walk a tightrope thin line
between my demon temptations
and the true thing that
is me.

One in the same.

I fight it

and let a little bit in
and let
a little bit escape
as well.

I’m dying.

We are all always dying.

Some of us are just
dying better than others
some of us are dying of old age
but I’m dying
because I want to find
a way to end this charade
this dance with the demons

this dance with the booze.

I take another drink
and hope that I’m not doing it
the falling.

Exploring new avenues

Exploring new avenues
driving down streets with no street signs,
no street lamps and no houses
with big red front doors.

Exploring new avenues

where the locals
have never heard of curb appeal.

Exploring new avenues
while the windows of my
’02 Nissan Altima are rolled down
and the smells of asphault, smog and cloves
fill my entire being.

Exploring new avenues

and the night draws a purple and pink halo
over the horizon of Amarillo, South Bend
Chandler, Ely
and everywhere inbetween
where my soul has rested for at least a spell.

As I drive these foreign roads
and check the atlas for smoother routes
I realize that there aren’t any
and that it is due time
for me to let destiny take the wheel.

As I creep creep creep
down these streets with no street signs
I see an apartment
with cement steps that lead up to the front door
and there is a piece of paper taped to the front door
and on it in messy red
it reads

Tea Garden, IN

hand-crafted driveway
poured from rented truck
and smoothed out with rusty old man
and the black gravel and tar seperate
the driveway and the “road”.
Trains come and go
with horns like hell
smashing the sky and waking the night
with megaphone yells like
methadone dreams when brain turns to sour cream,
spoiled and moldy in microwave.
It starts here with the puffs of pot
and the swigs of beer
and I become me in this neighborhood
where the whores of photo-massacism are made
and the best companions teach you
how to strum a guitar
and you find out that bass is so much more
than just 4 strings and copy cat schemes.
Summers come and go
and come again and
sometimes there are snowy winters
and sometimes pills and little tiny crystals
that make you regret and then forget
but what else is there?
you lost your virginity there
and got your heart broken twice.
You had a plce to crash
when your mother kicked you out
for talking back.
The place was hardly a town,
listed as a village by the documents.
Had 2 churches
a quilt shop
and an abandoned asylum
that no one dares to go near.
Freshly painted urban legends came from
that place.
Philosophies in cars and on front steps
came from there.
Smoked jerkey and Hell’s Angel Handshakes
came from there.
In some ways it was there
that I became a man.